Ex Girlfriend Quotes

Love is like a forest, I think as I kill trees by squandering toilet paper while “decorating” my ex girlfriend’s front yard.

You want to know what it feels like to be castrated? Try having your nine-year-old brother protect you from your ex-girlfriend after you've told her you're in love with a man.

After all, soulmates always end up together. Silly Bethany won't even be remembered then. Ex-girlfriends are easily forgotten. Best friends stay with you for ever.

You actually fucked her? What, did her forked tongue feel exceptionally good on your dick or something?" —Keely to Jack after meeting his ex-girlfriend.

Rebound sex is fine when you want to rebound and bounce back in life, but when you only want to bounce back into a bed with your ex-girlfriend, rebound sex would only ever turn out to be a regrettable thing

Ex-girlfriends are like car wrecks. You shouldn't want to know the details, but you do.

The three of us, working together to save the world. Me, my ex-girlfriend, and the guy she dumped me for.” His mouth twisted into a half smile. “This has to be the most screwed up situation three teenagers have ever found themselves in.” “I think I saw an episode of Gossip Girl like that once,” I offered.

A demonic reaper asked to be my valentine and then killed his crazy ex-girlfriend to save my life. Tomorrow I was starting up antipsychotic meds.

Some of us were brought into this troubled world primarily or only to increase our fathers’ chances of not being left by our mothers, or vice versa.

Get away from my ex-girlfriend, you moany little whinge-bag.' Caelen took a deep breath, like he was in pain, and stood up. His voice was low, guttural. 'I was hoping I'd get the chance to kill you.' 'You won't be killing anyone, you sad little emo git.' 'You've stood in the way of our love for long enough.' 'Just listening to you makes me want to top myself, you self-pitying Paranormal Romance novel reject.' Caelen glared. 'Stop insulting me.' 'Why? If you cry will your mascara run?

Should've thought of that before you told my ex-girlfriend I eat live kittens for breakfast." A tiny twinge of guilt. Then the cat wondered what Riley would think of her last successful "shoo-away." "Who knew she'd believe me?" [Mercy responded.] "Oh no? When you 'accidentally' opened the cupboard to expose my 'kitten cage' full of the poor, sad kitties I was going to snack on?" A raised eyebrow. "Wasn't the cage next to my special 'kitten defurring' tools?" "They were obviously fake." Bas just stared at her.

What are you gonna say?" Emma asked. " 'I'm not sure I want you back, but I'm sure I don't want your ex-con ex-girlfriend to have you, either'? Yeah. That'll start this little triangle off on the right foot.

You can't swing a cat in Ancient Greece without hitting one of Zeus's ex-girlfriends.

You can always evaluate a man's character by the way he speaks about his ex girlfriends and other women. When entering a new relationship or getting close with a new guy, make sure you take notice of the language he uses when referring to other girls

Our lives were now worlds apart, separated by time, circumstance, and the unbridgeable chasm of money.

I know why people write poetry," Javi says. "Because they're a bunch of emotional saps with nothin' better to do than whine about ex-girlfriends and dead dogs." "You're wrong, Javi," I say. "That's called country music.

Hey, guys,” I say as we stop in front of them. “Have a good summer?” “I had an awesome summer,” Jack says with his trademark smirk. “I got together with the ex-girlfriend I dumped more than a year ago because I’m a miserable fuck who never stopped pining for her. Oh, wait, that was you, Holt, wasn’t it?

Dear FB Friends, Fuck Facebook!!!!! — It has proven to be worthless as a book-selling device, and is nothing but a repository for perverts, reparation-seekers, old buddies looking for handouts, syphillitic ex-girlfriends looking for extra-curricular schlong and hack writers begging for blurbs.

…sitting on the sidewalk outside of his workplace like some creepy stalker ex-girlfriend, waiting for him to come out so I can ambush him with love.

I was seventeen all over again, falling into intrigue with the boy who was an exquisite contradiction.

Brad (Lauren's ex) ignored Hayley (she's Brad's ex girlfriend) and looked at me, he did a top to toe and back again then his gaze moved to Tate. "I'm here to tell you I'm suing you," he announced. Jim-Billy, Nadine, Steg, Wing and my eyes moved to Tate. Tate stared at Brad then he said, "Come again?" "I'm suing you," Brad repeated. "For what?" Tate asked. "Alienation of affection," Brad answered. Without hesitation, Tate threw his head back and burst out laughing. Then he looked at me and remarked, "You're right, babe, this is fun." Ignoring Tate's comment, Brad declared, "You stole my wife." Tate looked back at Brad. "Yeah, bud, I did." Brad pointed at Tate and his voice was raised when he proclaimed, "See? You admit it." He threw his arm out. "I have witnesses." "Not that any judge'll hear your case, seein' as Lauren divorced your ass before I alienated her affection, but you manage it, I'll pay the fine. In the meantime, I'll keep alienating her affection. You should know, and feel free to share it with your lawyers," Tate continued magnanimously, "schedule's comin' out mornin' and night. Usually, in the mornin', she sucks me off or I make her come in the shower. Night, man…shit, that's even better. Definitely worth the fine." Sorry, it's just too long; I have to cut it off. But it continues…like that: "This is the good life?" (Brad) "Part of it," Tate replied instantly, taking his fists from the bar, leaning into his forearms and asking softly, in a tone meant both to challenge and provoke, "She ever ignite, lose so much control she'd attack you? Climb on top and fuck you so hard she can't breathe?" I watched Brad suffer that blow because I hadn't, not even close. We'd had good sex but not that good and Brad was extremely proud of his sexual prowess. He was convinced he was the best. And he knew, with Tate's words, he was wrong. "Jesus, you're disgusting," Brad muttered, calling up revulsion to save face. "She does that to me," Tate continued. "Fuck off," Brad snapped. "All the fuckin' time," Tate pushed. "Fuck off," Brad repeated. "It's fuckin' magnificent," Tate declared. "Thanks, honey," I whispered and grinned at him when his eyes came to me. I was actually expressing gratitude, although embarrassed by his conversation, but I was also kind of joking to get in Brad's face. Tate wasn't. His expression was serious when he said, "You are, Ace. Fuckin' magnificent.

I had a dream that my boyfriend went back to his ex…I woke up and giggled because you don’t pick up a rock after finding a diamond.

Amongst all the beautiful women in this world.. There's always an idiot ex-boyfriend, who still expects her love again

I know what you're thinking.Girlfriend has fallen out of the stoopid tree and bonked her head against every branch on the way down.

Does that new man in your life call his ex "a slut", "a whore", "a bitch", "psycho" , "crazy", "a nutter" etc etc. Chances are, whatever he's calling his ex right now, he'll be calling you when things don't go his way. Be warned.

Naturally, every boyfriend comes with an ex-girlfriend, every business comes with competitors, but it is entirely up to you to decide how much time you spend thinking about them.

My ex-girlfriend Lisa once said that every woman wants the same thing in a relationship: to be adored.

My ex girlfriend was exquisite, and my current one is quisite.

you should change your Password" "not exactly a priority so I haven't got'round to it" "I'll do it for you"I offered. His arms gave me a squeeze and he grinned. "What'll you chose?" before I could stop my mouth from forming the words, I said "Shebitchfromhell666

But if there was a protocol for how to say goodbye to your newly ex-boyfriend's brother, right after you kissed him and probably sent your ex into the arms of his willing ex-girlfriend, I didn't know what it was.

You see her and ascend into love. You become enchanted, a found madman. In your love, you lose yourself and become her. You were once without her, now with her. You still feel her and descend into love. You become enraptured, a lost madman. In your love, you lost yourself and her. You were once with her, now without her.

If he were ever to break up with me, I would so be that stalker ex-girlfriend who stole his underwear and hid in the hedges outside his bedroom window.

Ex-girlfriends are easily forgotten. Best friends stay with you for ever.

Gone are the summer days and my mind along with them. No longer will I indulge in hopes of getting you back. It is hope that makes these chains heavier and autumnal nights longer. I will merely serve as a memory to you: the lover that recited love poems. I must go now and I urge you not to look back.

My mind was quickly consumed with thoughts of my girlfriend and all the good times we had had, like one of those cheesy montages ni eighties movies, when the angsty protagonist envisions himself and his ex holding hands on the beach, feeding a small puppy, getting into some kind of zany wrestling match with whipped cream. I interrupted my cliché memories by saying aloud: "Ugh, I'm feeling pretty low about this whole thing." "You just gotta try to put it out of your head," he said, folding the paper halfway down to look at me. "I know, it's just hard. I mean, I still have stuff at her place. What am I going to do about that? I still have a TV...," I said. "Fuck the TV. Leave the TV. Cut your ties." "It's a fifteen-hundred-dollar TV," I insisted. "Go get that fucking TV.

Feathery Stokers - There is no definitive list but here are some examples. Men who didn’t eat red meat were Feathery Strokers. Men who used postshave balm instead of slapping stinging aftershave onto their tender skin were Feathery Strokers. Men who noticed your shoes and handbags were Feathery Strokers. (Or Jolly Boys.) Men who said pornography was exploitation of women were Feathery Strokers. (Or liars.) Men who said pornography was exploitation of men as much as women were of the scale. All straight men from San Francisco were Feather Strokers. All academics with beards were Feathery Stokers. Men who stayed friends with their ex-girlfriends were Feathery Strokers. Especially if they called them their “ex-partner.” Men who did Pilates were Feathery Strokers. Men who said, “I have to take care of myself right now” were screaming Feathery Strokers. (Even I’d go along with that.) ~Jacqui

Being forced to sit between my mortal enemy and my ex-girlfriend every afternoon made seventh-period math feel like my own private Kobayashi Maru, a brutal no-win scenario designed to test my emotional fortitude.

Now how about you man the fuck up, put your big girl panties on and go get your fucking ex- girlfriend back.

My ex girlfriend and I, we had chemistry together. And right after that, we had biology.

After they broke up, Renaldo's ex girlfriend said to never again date an older woman. And he wisely listened to her, because his mother only had his best interest in mind.

My ex girlfriend and I go long periods of time without speaking to each other. And in between those extended stretches, we fill the time with silence.

You’re going to have people who are going to say ‘Oh, you know like, she just writes songs about her ex-boyfriends’ and I think frankly that’s a very sexist angle to take. No one says that about Ed Sheeran. No one says it about Bruno Mars. They’re all writing songs about their exes, their current girlfriends, their love-life, and no one raises a red flag there.

Aim for something Rosie, I know you don’t want to hear it, but it will help. Aim for what you want and the year will all make sense. Go to Boston if that will make you happy. Study hotel management like you’ve always wanted. You’re only young Rosie, and I know that you absolutely hate to hear that but it’s true. What seems tragic now won’t even be an issue in a few love, rosie 29 years time. You’re only 17. You and Alex have the rest of your lives to catch up together . . . After all, soul mates always end up together. Silly Bethany won’t even be remembered in a few years time. Ex-girlfriends are easily forgotten. Best friends stay with you forever.

There is always at least one person wondering if someone who has never loved them still loves them.

Every time I thought to, I wrote about you.

When you live with dignity no man will ever take it. Live without it and every boy will steal it.

Dash is for sure straight!" Boomer announced. "He has a super-pretty ex-girlfriend named Sofia, who I think he still has a thing for, and also, in seventh grade, there was a game of spin the bottle and it was my turn and I spun and it landed at Dash, but he wouldn't let me kiss him.

Great. I hate you; don’t leave me. That’s exactly what I feel with Bennet most of the time. Though more precisely it’s “I hate you, why don’t you leave your fucking ex-girlfriend?

I’m fine,” I interrupt. “Sorry. I just…” Why am I apologizing? Of course I didn’t want to exhume my ex-girlfriends grave.

There will come a time in every girl's life when she realizes that your ex-girlfriend wasn't crazy. Actually, she was right (about you).

I guess it’s a better explanation than “this is Cole’s ex-girlfriend who still lives with me and constantly argues with me, and I really hate her music, but look…taco dip!

Richard's ex-girlfriends were long gone, but their voices followed him all the time and spoke to him, like Muses or Furies. It was like having seven superegos arranged in a firing squad before a single beleaguered id, making sure he didn't enjoy that last cigarette.

My eyes change color depending on my mood and what I’m wearing. If I’m wearing an acorn brown shirt, my eyes look like squirrel fur. And if I’m wearing no shirt at all, my eyes look more nude and flesh-colored. I guess my ex girlfriend, Zelda, said it best when her friend asked her what I look like and she said: “He looks like you’d imagine him to look like, if you had no imagination.

And then there are the ex-girlfriends. They look incredible, every one of them.

because she was never really his girlfriend, she's not even his ex-girlfriend. She's nothing.

My ex girlfriend, she gave great log cabin. But she couldn’t write a speech like Lincoln. So I grew a beard and broke up with her.

You say your ex-girlfriend left you for someone else. In other words, she found a brighter star in the sky.

I couldn't deal with my ex and his new she-devil girlfriend being all up in my face and him trying to be friendly and her trying to poison me with her existence...

The burn is my girlfriend, failure is my ex. I'm married to the track and engaged to success.

Usually, a breakup is caused by, or causes, the revelation of one of the parties’ true colours.

People only believe the truth that their self-esteem will allow.

I think sometimes the bits of your life happen in the wrong order, or all at the same time and you waste time feeling angry about it, but that's the way it is, it's real life. You meet the person who you think could make you happy the rest of your life, but at the same time your ex-girlfriend who's told you umpteen times she never wants to see you again tells you you're going to be a dad.' Elle took up the story. 'And then you move to another country and then the next time you see that person, even though its like no time has passed, you sleep together and then - your mum dies' She gave a short, sad laugh. 'Yep that's rubbish timing

So did I mishear over the communicator, or did you send your girlfriend off on a super-sexy secret mission with her ex-boyfriend?’ ‘We’re fighting a war here, Nine, it’s not a joke,’ John replies sternly. After a moment’s awkward pause, a begrudging smile breaks on his face. ‘Also, shut up. It’s not super sexy. What does that even mean?’ ‘Wow, you really need my guidance,’ Nine says. He throws his arm around John’s shoulders and leads him towards the house. ‘Come on. I’ll explain what sexy is.’ ‘I know what it – ugh, why am I even discussing this with you?’ John shoves Nine in frustration, but Nine just holds on tighter. ‘Get off me, idiot.’ ‘Come on, Johnny, you need my affection now more than ever.

When a cop kills an unarmed man, it is because he senses his power being threatened by fear that he believes he should never have to feel. When a man kills his ex-girlfriend because she leaves him, he is saying the same thing: shame and sadness are feelings I should not have. Honor killings, as it turns out, are as American as apple pie.

Does it really matter? Don't we have more important things to contend with than the staid details of my previous relationships?" "Normally? Yes. But when the supreme commander of North America is your ex-girlfriend, and she's already feeling really stressed about the fact that you've been lying to her? And then all of a sudden you other ex-girlfriend shows up and Juliette doesn't even know about her? And she realizes there are, like, a thousand other things you've lied to her about and then our very powerful supreme commander gets, like, super, super pissed? I don't know man, I don't see that ending well.

The current girlfriend, boyfriend, wife, or husband is often an utterly unsuccessful attempt to stop missing or loving the previous one.

I've always found that ex-girlfriends with bodies are better than ex-girlfriends who are just internal organs locked away in a box somewhere. But I'm old-fashioned like that.

sculpture. Any visual art he had in his house was selected, purchased, and hung by ex girlfriends. Most of Denny's chosen wall hangings were mirrors.               The

Adrian was complicated and completely emotionally detached, but there was something about him, a sort of quality that could not be defined. He was sweet without even realising it. That was why his ex-girlfriends were always so outraged when they found out he was a cheater.

It was the ultimate jilted ex-girlfriend moment. Empty boxes and wrappers of Tastykakes littered the bedroom floor while Celine Dion's "All By Myself" blasted away for the 100th time. Tears streamed down my face as I devoured the last cupcake. There was no point getting out of bed. I had Celine, a box of tissues, and was moving on to the Butterscotch Krimpets next.

I was reminded of my ex girlfriend the other day. It’s amazing that something as simple as a first and last name, identical to hers, could remind me of her. I wonder how Zelda McFelda is doing thee days.

Fumi: So, what happened Asami-chan? Asami: Onii-chan's(big brother)... always said mean stuff and he's always been cold. He couldn't get along well with his ex-girlfriend and I thought that he wouldn't be able to get along with anyone else either. I'd always thought that he'd always be by my side. But it's different with Haruna! He's getting along so well with her! And on top of that, they might be OO and XX and they might get married!! He won't be only my Onii-chan anymore!! Fumi: Wow! You really approve of Haruna-chan, huh? I see!! Asami-chan really likes Haruna-chan!! Asami: Fumi-kun... were you even listening...?

Mum used to say that when she met my dad it was like a perfect love story. I thought Patrick was my perfect love story. Except he’s not. He’s the hypnotist’s love story. I’m the ex-girlfriend in the hypnotist’s love story. Not the heroine. I’m only a minor character.

They hang around, hitting on your friends or else you never hear from them again. They call when they’re drunk, or finally get sober, they’re passing through town and want dinner, they take your hand across the table, kiss you when you come back from the bathroom. They were your loves, your victims, your good dogs or bad boys, and they’re over you now. One writes a book in which a woman who sounds suspiciously like you is the first to be sadistically dismembered by a serial killer. They’re getting married and want you to be the first to know, or they’ve been fired and need a loan, their new girlfriend hates you, they say they don’t miss you but show up in your dreams, calling to you from the shoe boxes where they’re buried in rows in your basement. Some nights you find one floating into bed with you, propped on an elbow, giving you a look of fascination, a look that says I can’t believe I’ve found you. It’s the same way your current boyfriend gazed at you last night, before he pulled the plug on the tiny white lights above the bed, and moved against you in the dark broken occasionally by the faint restless arcs of headlights from the freeway’s passing trucks, the big rigs that travel and travel, hauling their loads between cities, warehouses, following the familiar routes of their loneliness.

He doesn’t drink too much. He’s employed and works hard. He doesn’t have commitment issues, kids, or crazy ex-girlfriends. He doesn’t attach way too much emotion to the outcome of UGA football. He’s a mythical, perfect man, difficult to find. Impossible to capture. A unicorn.

When one is undone—sprawled across the cold tile of a public bathroom in a pool of one’s own vomit, or shivering in the back of a taxi in a pair of urine-soaked skinny jeans with no money for cab fare and a dead cell phone battery—much like a wobbly toddler or an unhinged politician, one immediately looks for someone else to blame. God. Your parents. Ex-girlfriends. Undocumented immigrants. Marvin in Human Resources. China.

The thing about Sam was that he had a tell. Well, two. They weren’t an exact science, but they gave you a sense. One was his hair. He had a great head of hair. Dark and longer on top, his ex-girlfriend—who came up as “Liar” on his phone now—had referred to it as irresponsible hair. If it was relaxed and tucked behind his ears, Sam was chill. If it was slicked back, he was spoiling for a fight. If it was fluffy—a very rare treat—it meant he completely trusted whoever was around at the time. Sam’s hair hadn’t been fluffy in a while. Today it was tucked back yet also, kinda, done. With the telltale sheen of product. It was inscrutable.

He stretches his legs out underneath the table and checks Facebook on his phone. It tells him things he doesn’t need to know about people he hasn’t seen in years. He absorbs their aggressively worded opinions and quasi-political hate-speak. He sees a photograph of his ex-girlfriend with her new boyfriend smiling at a picnic and he realises, with a strange cascade of emptiness, that she is pregnant and wearing an engagement ring. The comments are jubilant. He reads every word before he forces himself to put his phone down. A loneliness descends. He feels its familiar talons grabbing him violently out of his chair and hanging him, swinging, up by the ceiling. Pete

I unlocked the deadbolt and flung the door open, stepping back for Gabby to see exactly who it was. “Hello, Sara,” I greeted. A bubble of laughter escaped Gabby before she could contain it. “Yes, hello ex-girlfriend Sara. And might I add: law-breaker? Who let you out of your cage? Don’t you know Joseph has a restraining order against you?

That was what true love was supposed to be about. Couples slobbering all over each other, only just able to let each other out of sight long enough to go to the loo. True love was not furtively checking your email, while your other half is in the bathroom to see if you have a message from someone you met out once. True love shouldn't be disappointed when your ex writes with the news that another old girlfriend is back on the scene. 'Fuck' she couldn't do this. She couldn't keep pretending. Not a single day longer.

Any other issues?” “Minor concerns about how you’ll fake being a devoted boyfriend when you’ve never been one in real life.” “I imagine the same way you’ll fake being a girlfriend who isn’t completely vanilla and devoid of passion.” I glared. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Mason grinned. “Apparently that you can dish it but not take it.

I don’t want you to resent me because I have to make out with my ex-girlfriend on camera while she publicly humiliates you.

If you don’t think a mental patient has the right to bring a sawed-off shotgun to the church where his ex-girlfriend is getting married, you’re part of the problem.

Get away from my ex-girlfriend, you moany little whinge-bag. - Fletcher

Alya.  She was talking about Alya.  The ramifications of Penny’s arrival on a personal level suddenly leaped out from hiding and pounced on me, beating me about the head and shoulders.  How does one do this?  Ex-girlfriend, meet new girlfriend – I’m sure you will get along famously.  It was a stickier diplomatic situation than a meeting of the Coronet Council.

Now when I remember the woman I was—heaving herself off the couch to go on another Internet date, taking a deep breath before walking into the party where she'd see her ex and his new girlfriend—I don't feel a trace of contempt or embarrassment. I have a funny admiration for the girl who kept taking her licks and got back up again. That was me. Doing my best. Which, of course, is all any of us can do.

With one Like I can say hi to a friend, support them during a crisis, share in a joke, make someone happy, or reinforce a person’s self esteem.  I make myself part of their world.  It’s like I stopped by for coffee.  But, by Liking, I can also avoid talking to all the people I don’t want to waste time on.  Or I can check to see what my ex-girlfriend is doing seven or eight times an hour.  It’s a double-edged mouse click.

So that's it. It has one ex-girlfriend of mine. And it's not satisfied. It wants the only person left on this earth that I... that I'd do anything for. Just throw her into the pot, who cares. I lost her once, I cannot lose her again

Mac brought up the rear, feeling ridiculous holding a beaded purse and marching behind his fake fiancée, his ex-girlfriend, and notorious arms dealer carrying a double-dicked lizard. Griselda fell into step beside her husband carrying a five-pound bag of sugar and a half-used tube of KY Jelly.

I attempted to make a more academic argument about how the Limp Bizkit song “Nookie” was misogynist for suggesting that the protagonist’s ex-girlfriend should inject a cookie into her vagina (or maybe that she should somehow fold her vagina into her rectum — the specific lyrics have never been clear).

In fact, a whole ex-girlfriend themed ghost train sounded genuinely terrifying. You'd get in and instead of a mummy mannequin covered in toilet roll popping out, it's her and you look down and you're wearing a baggy old jumper with a stain on the front. You turn the corner and you find yourself being forced to scroll through her Instagram and there are replies from a girl with tattoos and she looks exactly like the celebrity your ex fancies most. Right at the end, they play a video on a loop that's just screenshots of all the pathetic texts you sent when you were too heartbroken to have any dignity.

You can send invitations and it can be a fun little thing. An unveiling.” I spit out toothpaste. “I mean, in theory. But Allie moved, and Genevieve is a--” “Witch with a b,” she supplies. I giggle. “Definitely a witch with a b.” “She’s scary. One time when I was little, she locked me in the towel closet!” Kitty flushes the toilet and gets up. “You can still have a party, just don’t invite Genevieve. It doesn’t make sense for you to invite your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend to a time capsule party anyway.” As if there were some set etiquette for who to invite to a time capsule party! As if there were really such a thing as a time capsule party!

I’m going to need you to do something besides the deer in headlights look. You’re giving everyone the impression that I brought you here at gunpoint.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re sweet.” “Seriously. Looking even moderately enthused will do.” “Yeah, duly noted. How could I say no to such a sweet and sensitive boyfriend?” Mason smirked… “I didn’t realize sweet and sensitive was what you wanted.” “I think that’s what most girlfriends want, but I understand that you wouldn’t know that,” I replied, averting my eyes as Mason watched me gather my hair over one shoulder. “Duly noted. If that’s what works with you, then here.” One step forward and Mason was suddenly inches from me. The breath hitched in my throat as he locked his gaze on mine. Shit.

A few days later, I found myself back in the cellar. But this time, I was involved in an activity way more fun than cataloging magic junk. “What happened to the promise of making out in castles?” I asked as Archer and I pulled back for a breather. I was leaning back against one of the shelves, my hands clutching Archer’s waist. Over his shoulder, there was a jar of eyeballs staring at me, and I nodded toward it. “Because, see, things like that? Kind of a mood killer.” He glanced at the jar and then turned back to me, waggling his eyebrows. “Really? I find it has the opposite effect.” Giggling, I elbowed him in the stomach and pushed myself off the shelf. “You’re sick.” He smiled and ducked his head to kiss me again, but I skirted around him. “Come on, Cross, we came down here for a reason, and it wasn’t fooling around.” Smirking, Archer folded his arms over his chest. “May not have been your reason, but-“ I cut him off. “No. Don’t distract me with your sexy talk. We need to search this place, and that spell Elodie did will only last so long.” Elodie had swooped into my body at the cellar door, doing a quick spell to unlock it. She hadn’t even looked at Archer, much less said anything. And the second the lock clicked open, she’d vanished. The smirk disappeared from Archer’s face, and he actually looked kind of sullen. “Are you honestly that bummed about not hooking up right now?” I teased. But he was deadly serious when he shook his head and said, “It’s not that. It’s Elodie.” “What about her?” Archer rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Mercer. Maybe it’s that I’m not completely crazy about the ghost of my ex-girlfriend occasionally inhabiting the body of my current girlfriend.” I backed up another step and ran into another shelf. Something fell off and thunked against the dirt floor. “Whoa, I’m your girlfriend now?” Archer shrugged. “We’ve tried to kill each other, fought ghouls, and kissed a lot. I’m pretty sure we’re married in some cultures.” Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “Whatever. Look, the fact of the matter is, I don’t have any magic right now. Elodie does. If her occasionally using me as her puppet means that I have powers again, then I’m fine with it. And you should be, too. My body, my ghost, and all that.

It's an old story," Julia says, leaning back in her chair. "Only for me, it's new. I went to school for industrial design. All my life I've been fascinated by chairs - I know it sounds silly, but it's true. Form meets purpose in a chair. My parents thought I was crazy, but somehow I convinced them to pay my way to California. To study furniture design. I was all excited at first. It was totally unlike me to go so far away from home. But I was sick of the cold and sick of the snow. I figured a little sun might change my life. So I headed down to L.A. and roomed with a friend of an ex-girlfriend of my brother's. She was an aspiring radio actress, which meant she was home a lot. At first, I loved it. I didn't even let the summer go by. I dove right into my classes. Soon enough, I learned I couldn't just focus on chairs. I had to design spoons and toilet-bowl cleaners and thermostats. The math never bothered me, but the professors did. They could demolish you in a second without giving you a clue if how to rebuild. I spent more and more time in the studio, with other crazed students who guarded their projects like toy-jealous kids. I started to go for walks. Long walks. I couldn't go home because my roommate was always there. The sun was too much for me, so I'd stay indoors. I spent hours in supermarkets, walking aisle to aisle, picking up groceries and then putting them back. I went to bowling alleys and pharmacies. I rode buses that kept their lights on all night. I sat in Laundromats because once upon a time Laundromats made me happy. But now the hum of the machines sounded like life going past. Finally, one night I sat too long in the laundry. The woman who folded in the back - Alma - walked over to me and said, 'What are you doing here, girl?' And I knew that there wasn't any answer. There couldn't be any answer. And that's when I knew it was time to go.

I’ve applied to Brentwood every semester since I was a freshman. My mom fought me on it at first, but I think at this point she’s resigned herself to the fact that I’m never going to get in, so she just signs the forms without arguing. I mean, it’s Brentwood, so to get accepted you not only have to dance like you’re in Black Swan and belt out a B over high C like it’s a middle G and cry on cue through a memorized six thousand lines of Shakespeare, but you have to do it all at once, while having a 4.0 and forking over a hundred thousand dollars and giving the admissions director a blow job, apparently, but once you’re in, you’re in, it’s Brentwood then Juilliard then fame and fortune, and even if not, it’s New York City, baby, and the most important part of this equation is Brooklyn Bridge at midnight and tiny dogs in Chelsea and the Staten Island Ferry and that ex-girlfriend (don’t think about that, should I think about that?) and the answer to the goddamn equation is the absolute value of not Nebraska.

Hiya, Alex. I missed you tonight." My gaze rests on Sam. "Yeah, I see how much you missed me." "Sam? Oh, I don't really like him," she coos, coming close. I can smell the mota radiating off her. "I'm waiting for you to come back to me." "Not gonna happen." "Is it because of your stupid chemistry partner?" She grabs ray chin, trying to force me to look at her, her long nails digging into my skin. I grab both her wrists and pull them aside, all the time wondering how my tough-as-nails ex-girlfriend turned into a tough-as-nails bitch. "Brittany has nothin' to do with you and me. I hear you've been talkin' shit to her." "Did Isa tell you that?" she asks, her eyes narrowed into slits. "Just back off," I say, ignoring her question, "or you'll have a lot more to deal with than a bitter ex-boyfriend." "Are you bitter, Alex? Because you don't act bitter. You act like you don't give a shit." She's right. After I found her sleeping around, it took me a while to get over it, get over her. I wondered what other guys were giving her that I couldn't. "I used to give a shit," I tell her. "I don't now.

Well,Anna.It's Matt or the minivan. I'm not making the choice for you." I choose my ex.We used to be good friends,so I'm sort of looking forward to seeing him again. And maybe Cherrie isn't as bad as I remember.Except she is. She totally is. After only five minutes in her company,I cannot fathom how Bridge stands sitting with her at lunch every day.She turns to look at me in the backseat,and her hair swishes in a vitamin-enriched, shampoo-commercial curtain. "So.How are the guys in Paris?" I shrug. "Parisian." "Ha ha.You're funny." Her lifeless laugh is one of her lesser attributes.What does Matt see in her? "No one special?" Matt smiles and glances at me through the rearview mirror. I'm not sure why,but I forgot that he has brown eyes.Why do they make some people look amazing and others completely average? It's the same with brown hair. Statistically speaking, St. Clair and Matt are quite similar. Eyes: Brown. Hair: Brown. Race: Caucasian. There's a significant difference in height,but still. It's like comparing a gourmet truffle to a Mr. Goodbar. I think about the gourmet truffle. And his girlfriend. "Not exactly.

It's only second period, and the whole school knows Emma broke up with him. So far, he's collected eight phone numbers, one kiss on the cheek, and one pinch to the back of his jeans. His attempts to talk to Emma between classes are thwarted by a hurricane of teenage females whose main goal seems to be keeping him and his ex-girlfriend separated. When the third period bell rings, Emma has already chosen a seat where she'll be barricaded from him by other students. Throughout class, she pays attention as if the teacher were giving instructions on how to survive a life-threatening catastrophe in the next twenty-four hours. About midway through class, he receives a text from a number he doesn't recognize. If you let me, I can do things to u to make u forget her. As soon as he clears it, another one pops up from a different number. Hit me back if u want to chat. I'll treat u better than E. How did they get my number? Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he hovers over his notebook protectively, as if it's the only thing left that hasn't been invaded. Then he notices the foreign handwriting scribbled on it by a girl named Shena who encircled her name and phone number with a heart. Not throwing it across the room takes almost as much effort as not kissing Emma. At lunch, Emma once again blocks his access to her by sitting between people at a full picnic table outside. He chooses the table directly across from her, but she seems oblivious, absently soaking up the grease from the pizza on her plate until she's got at least fifteen orange napkins in front of her. She won't acknowledge that he's staring at her, waiting to wave her over as soon as she looks up. Ignoring the text message explosion in his vibrating pocket, he opens the contain of tuna fish Rachel packed for him. Forking it violently, he heaves a mound into his mouth, chewing without savoring it. Mark with the Teeth is telling Emma something she thinks is funny, because she covers her mouth with a napkin and giggles. Galen almost launches from his bench when Mark brushes a strand of hair from her face. Now he knows what Rachel meant when she told him to mark his territory early on. But what can he do if his territory is unmarking herself? News of their breakup has spread like an oil spill, and it seems as though Emma is making a huge effort to help it along. With his thumb and index finger, Galen snaps his plastic fork in half as Emma gently wipes Mark's mouth with her napkin. He rolls his eyes as Mark "accidentally" gets another splotch of JELL-O on the corner of his lips. Emma wipes that clean too, smiling like she's tending to a child. It doesn't help that Galen's table is filling up with more of his admirers-touching him, giggling at him, smiling at him for no reason, and distracting him from his fantasy of breaking Mark's pretty jaw. But that would only give Emma a genuine reason to assist the idiot in managing his JELL-O.

Charlie, I want to get married," she said. "Well, so do I, darling -" "No, you don't understand," she said. "I want to get married right now." Froggy knew from the desperate look in her eyes that Red was dead serious. "Sweetheart, are you sure now is a good time?" he said. "I'm positive," Red said. "If the last month has taught me anything, it's how unpredictable life can be - especially when you're friends with the Bailey twins. This could very well be the last chance we'll ever get! Let's do it now, in the Square of Time, before another magical being can tear us apart!" The idea made Froggy's heart fill with joy, but he wasn't convinced it was the right thing to do. "Are you sure this is the wedding you want?" he asked. "I don't mean to be crude, but the whole street is covered in a witch's remains." A large and self-assured smile grew on Red's face. "Charlie, I can't think of a better place to get married than on the ashes of your ex-girlfriend," she said. "Mother Goose, will you do the honors?" Besides being pinned to the ground by a three-ton lion statue, Mother Goose couldn't think of a reason why she couldn't perform the ceremony. "I suppose I'm available," she said. "Wonderful!" Red squealed. "And for all intents and purposes, we'll say the Fairy Council are our witness, Conner is the best man, and Alex is my maid of honor. Don't worry, Alex! This will only take a minute and we'll get right back to helping you!" Red and Froggy joined hands and stood in the middle of Times Square as Mother Goose officiated the impromptu wedding. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today - against our will - to unexpectedly watch this frog and woman join in questionable matrimony. Do you, Charlie Charming, take Red Riding Hood as your lovably high-maintenance wife?" "I do," Froggy declared. "And do you, Red Riding Hood, take Charlie Charming as your adorably webfooted husband?" "I do," Red said. "Then it is with the power mistrusted in me that I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the frog!" Red and Froggy shared their first kiss as a married couple, and their friends cheered. "Beautiful ceremony, my dear," Merlin said. "Believe it or not, this isn't the strangest wedding I've been to," Mother Goose said.